belisk five hundred feet or more high. It's
 hollow,  and  a  demon  dwells  within.  It  speaks in  a sweet
 voice to  the Micones,  who live  in a  burrow under  the base.
 The  demon  never  comes  out  of  its  tower,  and  I've never
 gone in to see it."
       "And these Micones have taken our ship?" asked Sturm.

    "Did I  not say  it?" ъapaldo  answered sulkily.  "Two nights
  ago, a  host of  crystal ants  marched past  in the  dark. They
  tore down one of our walls to clear a path. Evil, I tell  you -
  they  could've  walked  around.  It must  have been  your craft
  that they were carrying."
    "Why didn't your warriors oppose them?"
    "Because they are  trees, after  all! When  the sun  sets, they
  root  themselves  where  they  stand and  feed all  night long.
  Only with the coming of  day can  they shake  off the  dirt and
  walk  about."  ъapaldo  popped  up again.  He directed  a glare
  at  Sturm.  "Your  manners  are  impertinent!  I  won't answer
  any  more  questions."  The  shrillness left  his voice  and he
  added,  "We  are tired.  You may  leave us  now. If  you follow
  the corridor to the right, you  will find  rooms you  can sleep
  in."
    Kitiara  and  Sturm   bowed,  the   gnomes  waved,   and  the
  group filed out of the audience hall. A tree-man led the way.
    "What did you think of that!"  Kitiara said  in a  loud whis-
  per.
    "Later,"  Sturm replied  softly. The  roofless walls  were no
  guarantee of privacy.
    Along  the   corridor  that   ъapaldo  had   mentioned,  they
  found a series  of niches.  Some were  filled with  more wreck-
  age  of  the lost  Tarvolina, others  were empty.  The tree-man
  indicated  that  the  empty  niches  were  their  "rooms," then
  departed.
    The  gnomes  shrugged  off  their  packs  and  set  to  work
  making  as  much  noise  and confusion  as seven  gnomes could
  make. Sturm pulled Kitiara aside.
    "I fear that His Majesty is a bit out of the  weather," Sturm
  whispered.
    "He's as crazy as a bug chaser."
    "That's another way to  say it,  yes. But  Kit, we  need him
  to take us to this obelisk, if that's where the giant ants have
  taken  the  Cloudmaster.  So  we'll  have  to  humor  his royal
  pose to keep his good will, at least till we leave."
    "I'd  like to  give him  a good  shaking," she  said. "That's
  what he needs."
    "Use  your  head,  Kit.  There   are  probably   hundreds  of
  tree-men  around, all  loyal to  King ъapaldo.  How do  we kill

 a tree'? Even  with your  increased strength,  all you  did was
 cut a chunk out of one of them."
   "You're right," she said. Her expression darkened. "I'll tell
 you  something  else:  He's  wearing mail  under those  rags. I
 heard it  clink when  he sat  down. There  are two  reasons for
 people  to  wear  mail  - when  they know  they're going  to be
 attacked,  or  when they  think they're  going to  be attacked.
 Mad  he  may  be,  but  old  ъapaldo  is afraid  of something."
 She tapped a finger on Sturm's chest. "I say it's us."
   "Why us?"
   "'Cause we're human, and we've got metal of our own,
 which  probably  confuses  the  Lunitarians  to death.  Most of
 all, we're younger, bigger, and stronger than His Majesty."
   "Oh,  let  him  be  king  of  the tree-men,  if he  wants. If
 ъapaldo's  afraid of  anything, it's  this mysterious  demon of
 the obelisk. Have any ideas about it?"
   "On  this  crazy  moon,  it  could  be  anything, but  if the
 demon's got Stutts and the  others with  the flying  ship, he'd
 better be prepared to give them over, or face a fight!"
   Fitter  appeared  with  two  steaming  bowls.  "Dinner," said
 the  gnome.  "Pink  spears  and  mushroom  gills  seasoned with
 puffball dust." Fitter handed  over the  bowls and  returned to
 his colleagues.
     They ate their food in silence for a while. Sturm said at
 last, "I've been thinking about when we get back to Krynn."
   "Optimist," she said. "What were you thinking?"
   "If my visions so far have been true, then the first  thing I
 should  do  is  go  to  my ancestral  home. It  may be  that my
 father  secreted  his  sword  there  somewhere.  He   may  also
 have left me a clue as to where he was going."
   Kitiara idly stirred her pink  soup. "And  what if  you can't
 find it, or him? What then?"
   "I shall keep searching," he said.
   She set the bowl down on the ground between her feet.
 "How  long,  Sturm?  Forever?  Haven't   you  thought   of  any
 life beyond your  family? I  never faulted  you for  wanting to
 find  your  father  -  it  seemed  a worthy  cause and  a great
 adventure - but I see now that  there's more  to it  than that.
 You're not out to restore  just the  Brightblade name  and for-
 tune;  you  want  to  restore the  entire knightly  order." Her

 tone was derisive.
   Sturm's hands grew cold. "Is that such a terrible  goal? The
 world could use a force for good again."
   "These  are  modern  times,  Sturm!  The  knights  are gone.
 The  people  cast  them  off because  they couldn't  change to
 meet  the  changing  times.  There's  a  new  code  among war-
 riors: Power is the only truth."
   He stared at her. "Am I to give up my quest, then?"
   "Look  beyond,  will  you?  You're a  good fighter  and you're
 smart. Think of what we could do  together, you  and I.  If we
 joined the right mercenary band, in a year's time we'd  be the
 captains. Then the glory and power would be ours."
   Sturm  stood up  and slung  his sword  belt over  one shoul-
 der. "I could never live like that, Kit."
   "Hey!" she called  to his  retreating back.  Sturm continued
 down the corridor. The heat of fury filled Kitiara's heart. It
 surged  through  her,  and  she felt  an overwhelming  need to
 smash  something. How  dare he  be so  righteous! What  did he
 know  of  the  world,  the  real  world?  Sentimental, boring,
 knightly rubbish -
   "Ma'am?"  Fitter  stood  before  her, the  stew pot  in his
 hand. "Are you all right?"
   The  quickening  heat  in  her  limbs subsided  rapidly. She
 blinked  at  the  gnome and  finally said,  "Yes, what  do you
 want?"
   "You   were  pounding   on  the   wall,"  said   the  gnome.
 "Sprockets! You've cracked it!"
   Kitiara saw a spider's web of cracks radiating from  a shal-
 low hole in the  soft sandy  mortar. There  was white  dust on
 her knuckles. She didn't remember hitting the wall at all.

 * * * * *

   ъapaldo  the  First  watched  as  his  ъoyal  Guard  members
 slowed  to  rooted  immobility  and  froze  where  they  were.
 Their  eyes  and  mouths closed,  leaving not  a trace  in the
 ridged bark. Seeing  them this  way, no  one would  ever imag-
 ine that they could walk and talk.
      ъapaldo walked over and kicked the nearest Lunitarian.
 It hurt his toe,  and he  hopped backward  on one  foot, curs-

 ing the entire pantheon of Enstar.
   "Soon I'll be gone, and you'll have a new king," he  said to
 the unheeding tree-man. "Flown  away, that's  what, in  a fly-
 ing  ship  built by  gnomes! There's  a neat  trick! I  had an
 accursed whirlwind lift me to  this rotten  moon, and  they go
 and make wings  and fly  here on  purpose! Ta-ra-ra!  They can
 stay here, too. They'll stay behind, and I'll fly home."
   He  slipped  an  arm  conspiratorially  around  the tree-man
 and  whispered  to  him,  "I  could  take  the woman  with me,
 yes? She is very beautiful, though a bit too tall. If the king
 commands it, she will go with me,  yes? Yes,  yes -  how could
 she resist? I'll give the big fellow with the mustache to you.
 He can be the new king, Brightblade the  First. I  appoint him
 heir apparent, remember  that. For  all I  care, you  can make
 him a god. I shall fly, fly, fly away home."
   The  lengthening  shadows  crept  across the  royal audience
 hall.  ъapaldo stared  into the  darkest corner  and shivered.
 He grasped his axe and stalked to the middle of the room.
   "I see you there, Darnino!  Yes, it's  you! You  always come
 back  to  visit,  don't  you?  Dead  men  should   stay  dead,
 Darnino! Especially when I kill  them with  my royal  axe!" He
 charged  into  the  shadows,  throwing  the  axe from  side to
 side. The  heavy blade  clinked off  the rock  walls, striking
 sparks.  ъapaldo flailed  away at  the ghost  in his  mind for
 some  time.  Fatigue  chased  Darnino  away  more  surely than
 any of the king's axe cuts.
   "There's a lesson for you," he  said, panting.  "Trifle with
 ъapaldo the First, will you?"
   He  dragged  his  feet across  the hall.  By the  throne, he
 stopped,  ear  cocked  to  the open  sky. "Laughing?  Who said
 you could  laugh?" he  said. The  Lunitarians were  still. "No
 one laughs at the king!" ъapaldo cried.  He hurled  himself at
 the  nearest  Lunitarian,  chopping  fiercely  with  his ship-
 wright's axe. Chips of gray flew off  the tree-man,  who could
 not  resist  the  unwarranted   attack.  ъapaldo   yelled  and
 cursed  and  chopped until  the guard  was a  stump surrounded
 by scraps of broken wood-flesh.
   The axe fell  from his  hand. ъapaldo  staggered a  few feet
 toward his throne and collapsed, sobbing.

                     Chapter 15
                The King's Garden

   Sturm  awoke  to  a  tapping  on  his  nose.  He cnacked
 an eyelid and saw  ъainspot standing  over him,  his stubby
 forefinger poised for another tap.
   "What  do  you  want?"  he  rumbled. The  gnome withdrew
 his finger.
   "We're having a secret  meeting," whispered  ъainspot. "I
 can't find the lady, but we want you to take part."
   Sturm sat up. It was still night and he could hear hushed
 murmurs  from  the  gnomes down  the hall.  Kitiara's place
 was empty,  but he  wasn't too  concerned. Sturm  knew that
 she could take care of herself quite well.
   He tightened the lacings  on his  leggings and  went down
 the hall with ъainspot. The gnomes flinched in  unison when
 they appeared.

 "I told you it was them," said the sharp-eared Cutwood.
 "But you didn't say when they were coming," objected
 Bellcrank.
 "You should  learn to  be more  exact," said  ъoperig. There
 was general nodding of small pink heads.
 Sturm  rubbed  his forehead.  It was  too soon  after waking
 to  jump  into  a  gnomish  conversation.  "What's  all this
 about?" he asked at normal volume.
 "Shh!"   seven  gnomes   said  at   once.  Wingover   waved  for
 Sturm to come to their level, so he knelt beside Sighter.
 "We're   discussing  plans   to,  uh,   abscond  with   some  of
 King  ъapaldo's  scrap  metal,"  said  Wingover.  "We'd  like to
 hear your ideas."
 Sturm was surprised at such tactics coming from the
 gnomes.
 "My  idea  is,  don't steal  from your  host," he  said bluntly.
 "Don't   misunderstand,   Master   Brightblade,"    said   Bell-
 crank quickly. "We don't want to steal from the king,  it's just
 that we haven't any gold or silver to pay him with."
 "Then  we  must   arrange  some   other  method,"   Sturm  said.
 "After all, we sorely need his help, and it will serve us ill to
 rob a potential benefactor."
 "Suppose he won't give us any metal," said Wingover.
 "We have no reason to be so suspicious."
 "His  Majesty seems  rather unstable  to me,"  Sighter said.
 "He's completely off his gears," said Fitter.
 "It's not  our place  to judge,"  said Sturm.  "If the  gods saw
 fit to take ъapaldo's wits, it's because he was so  lonely here.
 Imagine  being  on  this  moon  for  ten years  or more  with no
 one  but the  tree-folk for  company. You  should feel  pity for
 ъapaldo."  Sturm  looked  over  the  gnomes'  crestfallen faces.
 "Why  not  think  of  some  way  to  win   ъapaldo's  gratitude?
 Then he would probably give us the metal we need."
         The gnomes looked ashamedly at the ground. After a
 moment's  silence,  Wingover  said,  "Perhaps  we  could  invent
 something to cheer His Majesty up."
 Six  gnome   faces  popped   up,  smiling.   "Excellent,  excel-
 lent! What shall it be?" asked Bellcrank.
 "A musical instrument," said ъoperig.
 "Suppose   he   doesn't   know  how   to  play   it?"  countered

 Sighter.
   "We'll make one that plays itself," said Cutwood.
   "We could give him a Personal Heating Apparatus -"
   "An automatic bathing device -"
   "- an instrument!"
   Sturm  stood  and  backed  out of  the newest  wrangle. Let
 them figure it out, he thought. It'll keep them  occupied. He
 decided to find Kit.
   He  wandered  along  the  corridor. By  night, the  way was
 dim  and  confusing,  and  more  than once  he walked  into a
 dead end. This place is a maze, he  decided. He  doubled back
 to what he believed was the main  corridor and  started again
 for the outside. There was a series of niches along the right
 again, but he didn't hear the gnomes.  The niches  were dusty
 and empty. It was not the same hall.
   At the end, the passage turned left.  Sturm swung  into the
 black  gap  and  immediately  stumbled  over some  dry sticks
 on the floor. He fell hard on his chest  and banged  his head
 against something solid that skittered away  when he  hit it.
 The object bounced  off the  wall and  rolled back  to Sturm.
 He heaved himself up on his hands. A wedge of  starlight fell
 across the open end of the  niche. Sturm  held up  the object
 that  he'd  knocked his  head on.  It was  a dry  white human
 skull. The 'sticks' he'd tripped over were bones.
   He went back  out into  the open  passage and  examined the
 skull. It was broad  and well  developed; certainly  a man's.
 The most disturbing feature was the deep cleft in the bone of
 the forehead. The man had  died by  violence -  as by  an axe
 stroke.
   Sturm carefully replaced the skull  in the  cul-de-sac. Out
 of reflex, he checked to see if his sword was hanging  in its
 scabbard. The cold hilt was reassuring to  his touch.  He was
 worried. Where was Kitiara?
        He bumped into Kitiara as she came skulking down the
 passage. She had a tousled, slightly wild look that  made him
 think she'd been drinking. But no,  ale was  hard to  come by
 on Lunitari.
   "Kit, are you all right?"
   "Yes. I am. I think."
   He  put  an  arm  around  her  waist  to  support  her  and

 steered her to a low stretch of wall, where they sat.
   "What happened?" he asked.
   "I  went  walking,"  she said.  "ъapaldo's gardens  take longer
 to vanish  after dark  than the  wild plants  we saw.  There were
 some  big  toadstools,   with  pink   spores  coming   out.  They
 smelled good."
   "They've affected you," he  said, noting  the light  dusting of
 pink on her shoulders and hands. "How do you feel I"
   "I  feel  -  strong. Very  strong." She  gripped his  free hand
 and squeezed his wrist. Pain raced up Sturm's arm.
   "Careful!" he said, wincing. "You'll break my arm!"
   Her  grip  didn't slacken.  Sturm felt  the blood  pounding in
 his fingertips. In her present state, it wasn't prudent to strug-
 gle. She might crush his arm without realizing it.
   "Kit,"  he  said  as evenly  as the  pain would  allow, "you're
 hurting me. Let go."
   Her hand snapped  open, and  Sturm's arm  dropped out
 like a dead weight. He massaged the bruised arm back to
 life.
   "You  must've  inhaled  those  spores,"  he  said.  "Why don't
 you go lie down? Do you remember the way?"
   "I  remember,"  she  said  dreamily.  "I  never get  lost." She
 slipped  away  like  a  sleepwalker,  making  unerring  turns and
 avoiding  all  the   wrong  passages.   Sturm  shook   his  head.
 Such  uncontrolled   strength  was   deadly.  What   was  happen-
 ing to her - to all of them?
   Then,  curious,  he  decided  to  see  those  mushrooms  from a
 safe  distance. He  went along  the path  Kitiara had  used until
 he  reached  the  outside  wall.   The  neatly   boxed-in  garden
 beds  were  empty.  No  trace  of  the  mushrooms   remained.  He
 stepped over  the low  wall and  dipped his  hand into  the ever-
 present  scarlet  dust.  Had  she  indeed  been  walking  in  her
 sleep?  Or  had  the  mushrooms  withered   in  the   short  time
 between  her  seeing  them and  his arrival?  The stars  and set-
 ting silver moon offered no clues.
   Sturm  noticed a  dull light  moving along  the gallery  on the
 north side of the  palace. He  cut across  the gardens  to inter-
 cept the light. It proved to  be His  Majesty, carrying  a weakly
 burning oil lamp.
   "Oh," said ъapaldo, "I remember you."

    "Good  evening,  Your  Majesty,"  said Sturm  graciously. "I
 saw your lamp."
    "Did you'? It's a feeble thing, but the oil I make is not of
 the best quality, heh, heh."
    "Your  Majesty,  I wonder  if I  might have  a word  with you."
    "What word?"
    Sturm fidgeted. This was as bad as trying  to talk  with the
 gnomes.  "My  friends  were  wondering,  Sire,  if we  might be
 able to get some scrap metal from you to  fix our  flying ship,
 once we find it."
    "You'll  never  get it  back from  the Micones,"  said ъapaldo.
    "We  must  try,  Sire.  Could  we  get  some  metal  from  your

 supply?"
    "What kind and how much'?" asked the king sharply.

    "Forty pounds of iron."
    "Forty pounds! Ta-ra! That's a king's ransom, and I
 should know. I am the king!"
   "Surely iron is not so precious -"
   ъapaldo hopped backward, the wavering lamp throwing
 weird  shadows  behind him.  "Iron is  the most  precious thing
 of all! It was the iron axe I carry that made me master  of the
 red moon. Do you not see, Sir  Knight, that  there is  no metal
 at  all  here?  Why  do you  think my  subjects bear  swords of
 glass? Every scrap of iron is a buttress to my rule, and I will
 not part with any of it."
    Sturm  waited  until  ъapaldo's  quivering  hands  had grown
 more steady.  He said,  slowly, "Sire,  perhaps you  would like
 to go with us when we leave on the gnomes' flying ship."
   "Eh? Leave my kingdom?"
   "If you so desire."
   ъapaldo's   eyes   narrowed.   "My   subjects   would   never
 allow it. They won't even let  me leave  the town.  I've tried.
 I've tried. I'm their link with  the gods,  you know,  and they
 are very jealous of me. They won't let me go."
   "What's to stop  you from  leaving at  night, when  the Luni-
 tarians are rooted where they stand?"
   "Heh,  heh,  heh!  They  would  hunt  me  down  by  daylight!
 They  move  very  fast  when  they  want  to, don't  worry! And
 there's  never been  anyplace else  to go.  The ants  have your
 craft and will not let you have it. The Voice has it now."

   Sturm said firmly,  "We intend  to ask  this Voice  to return
 our ship."
   "The  Voice!  Ta-ra-ra!  Why  not  ask  the  High   Lords  of
 Heaven to bear you home  on their  backs, like  birdies, tweet,
 tweet? The Voice is evil, Sir Knightblade; beware of it!"
   Sturm  felt  as  if he  were swimming  against a  strong cur-
 rent.  ъapaldo's  mind could  not follow  the course  of reason
 that Sturm had set out, but  there were  some nuggets  of truth
 in  what  he  said.  The 'Voice,'  if it  existed, was  a great
 unknown quantity. If it refused them,  their hopes  for getting
 home were destroyed.
   Sturm  made  one  last  attempt  to  persuade  ъapaldo. 'Your
 Majesty, if my friends and I can convince the Voice  to release
 our  flying  ship,  would  you  then  provide  us   with  forty
 pounds of  iron! In  return, we'll  carry you  back to  Krynn -
 to your home island, if you wish."
   "Enstar?"  said  ъapaldo, blinking  rapidly. Tears  formed in
 his eyes. "Home?"
   "To your very doorstep," Sturm promised.
   ъapaldo set the lamp on  the ground.  His hand  fla